The walk to Zitao’s assigned studio only further reminds him of how out of place he actually is.

It’s in a nicely-built part of the building, the wing clean and floors glossy, each studio door wide and doubled with gunmetal handles and icy, frosted windows. If Zitao didn’t know any better, he’d say it was possible to actually smell the revenue that the employees in this wing bring in. 

As beautiful and as lavish as the place may be, however, Zitao struggles to feel welcome with the sheer amount of hard stares he gets from other passersby. 

He would have figured it should be no big deal to see new employees in the Marketing wing - employees can be promoted to it anyway, right? So then how come everybody is staring at him as if he’d just cut his own head off?

It would make sense if it were just another secret that he has yet to be let in on - judging from the stare he’d gotten from that Jessica girl as well as the commotion he’d inadvertently caused in front of the board. Perhaps the word of his employment could have somehow gotten around to the entire building within milliseconds, he doesn’t know. Whatever the case may be, he doesn’t enjoy sticking out like a sore thumb.

He does his best to ignore it, pressing his lips tightly together as his heels clack on the polished flooring, averting his eyes from passing glances to the plaques on the wall as they roll on by, and focuses on trying to find his assigned studio. Maybe after a few days of him showing up to work, the staring will cease and he will be able to live his life and do his job the way everybody else in this firm does theirs. After all, he’s here for work only, not to make friends nor enemies.

His studio is near the end of the wing on the left - Studio B, the plaque reads beside the set of double-doors. He cements the sight in his mind for future use, knowing that this is to where he will have to report each and every morning. As he lays a hand on the heavy handle, he wonders how the president knows if people are actually doing the job they are assigned - does he have cameras installed everywhere like a control room, or does he walk around outside of his office to check up on people every so often? Zitao wonders what kind of job the president has up there by his lonesome.

He pulls open the set of doors with a mechanical click before slinking into space he’s made for his own body and allowing the door to swing back into place quietly.

The studio is dark, lights dimmed nearly all the way to where Zitao is certain he could lead a successful game of hide-and-seek. Off to the right is a photography set, the white backdrop draped from ceiling to floor as a model stands before it, pretty and posed like a plastic doll, as a photographer kneels before her and snaps pictures of her. The area is massive, probably to accommodate furniture in some sets or even multiple people at once without gaining sight of the background outside of the edges of the backdrop - Zitao would know. 

To his left is what looks like a backstage area, vanities lined against the walls littered with products and stacked with mirrors and unplugged lamps and lights, all surrounding several tall racks of clothing packaged in thick cellophane and hung on rods for use. It’s quite messy, a few pieces of used clothing strewn across the floor throughout the room as though tried on and discarded, but Zitao honestly wouldn’t have it any other way. To him, the messiness represents hard work and dedication.

He stands awkwardly in the entryway for a long moment, watching as various women crowd around the photographer and duck into the set briefly between shots to tidy up the model or to help her pose. Are those the coordinators? Is he supposed to go say hello and introduce himself?

No, that would be disturbing the shoot, and Zitao hates to disturb people.

He decides to step quietly over to an armchair separating the left and the right hemispheres of the room, soft and cushioned beneath him as he sinks into it, and decides he will watch how the photoshoots are conducted until they are finished.

He takes mental note of how professional they all look, how flatly and clearly the photographer speaks, and how high the model’s chin is held, cheekbones prominent and neck slimmed. He can tell just by looking that she’s extremely experienced, and he wonders how he is supposed to fit in with women of this level of expertise. Maybe he is supposed to just grin and bear it, he being someone who has never before modeled professionally.

The shoot concludes with the model lifting the ruching of her dress and stepping down from her stool to gaze at the shots on the screen of the photographer’s camera as he flicks through the gallery. The women - coordinators, he is going to assume - begin to clean up the pieces from the set, such as putting away the stool as well as help rearrange the lights and standing softboxes.

Everything is done with grace to it, like a finely-tuned machine. These are people who are deserving of their roles, people who have worked hard to reach their places and know how to do exactly what is required of them.

Amidst his thoughts, a lady approaches him with tied hair in a smooth bun at the back of her head, hands slightly patched with what Zitao would guess were bruises if he hadn’t known better, but after his very limited few escapades in preparation for this job, he realizes they are makeup marks. “Can I help you, honey?” She asks in a very fluid tone, thick and decadent like molasses. 

“Oh,” he stutters as he forces his lips into a twitchy smile and raises a hand. “I’m, um… new here.”

Her eyes widen then, big and brown and glassy. “Oh!” she coos with a professional grin. “Do you know who your coordinator is?”

He blinks, trying to remember back to what the board had said. Oh, wait - he’s got the same information on his paperwork in his very hands. Hastily, he flips open his booklet and rakes his eyes down the front cover. “Song Qian,” he answers, and her face lights up in knowledge.

“Ah, perfect,” she says with a little laugh, and something begins to pull the strings of his heart towards something that feels like happiness, something that feels like home. “Qian!” She shouts, glancing over her shoulder.

Zitao is confused for only a split-second, having thought that perhaps this lady was Qian judging by her reaction. He discovers himself wrong, however, when a lady over by the backdrop lifts her head, long, dark brown hair cascading down her shoulders with streaks of pastel running through it in every shade.

She makes her way over to them in a jog, hands full of backdrop clips as she says, “Yes?”

The lady glances at her, and then gestures to Zitao sat on the chair. “This young lady is your new client.”

The brown-haired woman’s eyes go wide and bright, then, and she wastes no time in extending a friendly hand for Zitao to take as her face spreads into an expression of pure delight, infections and jovial and symbolic of the love she has for her job as she says, “Hi, sweetie. What’s your name?”

“Huang Yingtao,” he replies as he shakes her hand, her grip firm yet delicate at the same time. 

“Welcome, Yingtao,” she grins and sets her backdrop clips down onto a table beside the chairs. “I’m Qian, but you can call me Victoria if you’d like. Whichever you prefer.”

He blinks. “That’s a pretty name.”

She nods with a smile plastered across her lips before settling her hands on her hips. “Did you know, you have the prettiest cupid’s bow and the sweetest smile?”

His eyes widen at the compliment, heart skipping a beat. It’s not very often he has his appearance complimented. “Oh,” he says. “Thank you, I - it’s all natural, I guess.”

Qian laughs, then. “Don’t worry, I understand it’s all very new. Take your time, shake your shoulders loose, get it all out. We’re a big family here.”

The sentiment makes him feel a little bit less awkward, her infectious giggles bringing similar smiles to his own face. “She is very cute, Qian,” the other lady says with a hand on her chin. “I’m Joohyun, by the way. Not that you will ever really need to know that.”

“Hi, Joohyun,” he says awkwardly, and both ladies laugh in response.

“You’re the cutest,” Qian tells him. “You’re like a little kitten. Anyway, Yingtao, want me to show you the ropes?”

What? “The ropes?”

“It’s an expression, sweetheart,” she laughs and coaxes him into standing up, several inches taller than she and Zitao wouldn’t be opposed to calling it near a foot of difference. “I mean, do you want me to show you how everything works around here?”

Oh. “Okay.”

Qian waves him over to the right area where the photographer is finishing cleaning up from the shoot, and with a wave of her arm, she explains, “This is where we photograph people if you couldn’t tell. We have about a dozen backdrops because our photographers focus more on filters and lighting than backdrops, and Mr. Wu is a fan of solid backdrops with intricately-colored filters. This is where you will do your shoots, so we’ll dress you up and get you ready, and then you’ll have shots taken here.”

Zitao looks around at the space, at the rolls of solid-colored backdrops lined along the wall and the white one draped from hooks on the ceiling. The photographer’s equipment back is shoved off to the side by the backdrops, ped with lens caps having spilled forth onto the floor. “Does each studio have a setup like this?”

“Yep,” she chimes with a nod, gazing around the space. “Each studio in this department is pretty much exactly the same, just with different photographers and different coordinators. This studio has myself and Joohyun, and the studio next to us, Studio C, has two coordinators named Jihye and Liyin. Don’t worry, you normally won’t have to worry about going to other studios unless you’re requested there, which you probably know that you can check up on your request status at the bulletin boards in the foyer.”

He nods, “I know about them. So, say I finish my immediate work in this studio - what then?”

“Well,” she sighs as she looks back to him with a tired expression and wipes her hair out of her face, “the way things work in this department is you get two breaks, a thirty-minute lunch, and a thirty-minute snack. We’re in charge of giving and approving the breaks under the president’s orders, so that’s why he may not have mentioned the lunching system to you.  You can take a break whenever you have no other work to do - so say one day you come in for your shift, Yingtao, and you have a shoot scheduled first thing when you get here. After the shoot, you are free to go check on your status on the board and if you haven’t been requested in any other studio, you are free to take a break, but you only get two a day. Otherwise, you just have to hang out in the studio until we need you.”

“Why would I be called to other studios, if I may ask?”

“Collaborations, usually,” she shrugs. “So let’s say the photographer in Studio G saw one of your prints and wants to work with you, they will request for a bulletin on the board for whenever a spot opens up in your schedule, you will be requested to come to Studio G. Does that make sense?”

He nods because it does make sense. This is almost like his homeroom, the place to where he has been designated, but he is not restricted from working in spots other than this one room. He actually quite likes the layout of that method - it’s a lot of exercise on the legs, but he can get bored sitting in one place for many hours at a time with nothing to do. 

“It’s the president’s method,” she says. “It’s his way of doing things. He finds it more time and cost-efficient than moving the photographers themselves, especially if we get one of our once in a blue moon visits from an out-of-company photographer or a designer, the president will designate them to one spot and bring the models to them.”

That’s… shockingly polite, Zitao realizes. To privilege someone of such a high standard to the point where they do not even have to go out of their way and to have the work come to them? Zitao didn’t think the president would have been someone with such a kind outlook on colleagues and acquaintances, considering how rude and cold he had been during their interview. 

“Do you come with us when we go to a different studio?” He asks, slightly nervous. He doesn’t have the easiest of times attaching himself to new people.

“Unfortunately, no,” she shrugs. “We are assigned to the studio first, models second. Even if you get called to a different studio for work, other models might get called to this studio for work, as well, and we would need to be here to help them with that work, you know?”

It does make sense, no matter how much he doesn’t want to admit it. “I understand,” he nods, lips pressed together, and the determined expression on his face makes her grin. 

“Don’t worry,” she says suddenly, as she reaches out and pats a soft palm against his shoulder. “You won’t be reassigned to a different coordinator unless I get demoted or fired. Even if you have to use a different one for a shoot, you’ll always come right back to me, Yingtao. Alright?”

The soft warmth of her voice winds its fingers around his heart and squeezes, and he can practically feel the maternal waves radiating off of her. He wonders briefly if she has children, for it’s hard for him to imagine a woman being so empathetic has she no familial ties. “Okay,” he smiles just a little bit, lips curling at the corners. Her happiness seems to be strangely infectious, as though it is the only way to be in a place like this.

“So,” she states after a small pause, wiping her hands together and Zitao notices equally dusty marks on her hands, as well, from swatching colors. “I think since you are a new addition to this department, Mr. Wu should be around soon to help oversee everything, and will probably introduce your first assignment, yeah?”

He takes her word for it and it helps to calm his nerves just a bit. Although inexperienced, Zitao doesn’t think it will be necessarily hard for him to get ahead and learn to perform at the level of that of everybody else here. 

He remains in his spot on the chair, watching as she leaves him be and returns to cleaning up the shoot, and after only a few moments, he hears the door click as it opens and watches as several other females file into the room, and he exhales a breath of trepidation, having forgotten that he couldn’t possibly have been the only model to share this studio.

The girls resonate an air of approachability, smiling as they chatter and wave their hands in bickering motions, yet it is all the same when they notice him in their space - their eyes change, their smiles dissipate and the corners of their mouths melt back into frowns, and Zitao feels out of place once more. He begins to wonder if perhaps they all know he is a boy - maybe that would give some explanation as to why everybody seems to treat him like a foreign entity. 

Is this what it is like to be an enigma? To exist in a plane of those all the same and to be the only difference in the air? It saddens him to feel so unwelcome when so accomplished. He is deserving of his hire the same way each of his coworkers is, so why is he being treated so differently?

He wants to ask Qian about it - maybe she will know something and will offer up some kind of an explanation, yet at the same time, albeit his senior, Qian is just another employee under the president’s wing. If this were a personal issue regarding only himself and the president, she would not be able to carry any knowledge of the mind. 

Yet even having asked the president himself about it, Zitao had been given very little explanation, and the knowledge that the president if not his coworkers as well may be keeping something from him disturbs him greatly.

However, it does not pity him too much when the girls bypass him entirely without greetings and make their way to the vanities. He is not hungry for friendships enough to whimper and willow when cast aside.

It is as though superficial - the girls here seem to be nice when required to be nice, such as when with friends or around figures of higher status who are more deserving of respect, yet morph into bitterness when around strangers. He never liked viewing people as lesser and treating them as such, because people are people, no matter what. Although he is new, he is still an employee and he is still deserving of the paychecks he will get.

Nevertheless, despite their rigid countenances, the girls are simply overloaded with compliments as the coordinators rush before them, gushing about each and every physical trait of theirs that could possibly be commented on, from their cheekbones to their eyelashes and their hair to their irises. Zitao wonders how much the coordinators could be paid to be this sickly-sweet.

As the girls thank them for the compliments, the coordinators begin to scatter as the girls rifle through the racks for wrapped articles of clothing, and Zitao wonders if perhaps they have a shoot to do that had been plastered on the bulletin board. 

Not having anybody to tend to at the very second, Qian returns to his side and shadows him as she stands before him. “You’re a quiet one, aren’t you?”

He blinks up at her as she asks her question, and feels slightly embarrassed to not be quite as outgoing and confident as the other women in his position. “Sorry,” he apologizes bashfully. He’s not all that worried about not having any friends here - he’s got Luhan waiting at home and his mother waiting in her cot, stark white and sheets crisp. He would much rather have friends that wholesomely appreciate him than friends that only accommodate him for the sake of convenience. 

“Don’t be sorry,” she grins. “Quiet is okay, too. I’m just used to the girls chatting with each other when they come in for shoots, but you are new so you probably don’t have any friends in this department yet, right?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“That’s okay,” she says in a bright tone. “I’ll be your friend.”

Is his coordinator allowed to be his friend? For some reason, it makes little sense to him. Qian is his superior, and the president specifically said that coordinators are not to be treated as friends. “Mr. Wu said I can’t do that,” he admits softly. “He said we are absolutely not to make friends with the coordinators because you are staff first and friends never.”

She scoffs, then, her expression twisting in momentary antipathy. “Oh, the president is just an old stick in the mud. That’s his authoritarianism speaking - he wants to intimidate you. What happens in this studio, stays in this studio. If neither of us tells him, how is he going to know?”

Well, that is true. Perhaps it was a bit of a privacy stretch to assume that the president would be one to implant cameras specifically for eavesdropping on conversations. 

“Our little secret?” Zitao asks, a smirk trickling across his lips.

“Our little secret,” Qian confirms as she extends her hand and lifts her pinky for him to take, and he happily winds his own pinky around hers in the sealing of a secret.

The president enters the studio as Zitao is organizing makeup brushes par Qian’s request, as she tidies up used wipes and knots off garbage bags by the bins next to the door. He’d gotten bored very quickly sitting there unmoving having to wait for the president’s unprecedented arrival. 

What he hadn’t expected, however, would be for the president’s stance to stiffen as he caught sight of him and for him to call out for him, which when unexpected, proves to be very startling for Zitao as he jumps and one of the brushes slips out of his palm. “Miss Huang.”

“Yes, Mr. Wu?” He asks, hands shaky under the pressure of a heavy stare. 

“Why are you cleaning up products?” The president asks in a stern voice, tone unmoving. “This is not the job that I hired you to complete.”

Disheartened, Zitao sets the brushes down into the round casing and sets it off to the side. “I um - I was just trying to help. I had nothing else to do.”

One of the president’s brows twitches, then, and Zitao notices out of his peripherals that the man’s hands have begun to clench. “You had nothing else to do? You couldn’t be patient for five minutes for me to come to give you your first assignment?”

Mistake number one, he mentally calculates. He’s never before had to retract his kindness and willingness to help others in lieu of it making him seem impatient. He doesn’t think he’s ever met anybody before in his life that had punished another person for offering assistance. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wu,” he bows in apology, hands folded against the rough of his skirt. “I will be more patient next time.”

“I thought I made it very clear, Miss Huang,” he says as he steps closer, muscles in his jaw hard-set and eyes cold, and Zitao’s blood chills as their proximity quickly thins, “that this firm was not a hospital for you to volunteer at.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats with glossy eyes. “I won’t help anybody anymore. I’m sorry.”

Bitterly, the president turns his gaze away and folds his hands behind his back in an authoritarian posture, intimidating and broad. “Qian,” he calls out, and the woman glances up from where she had been re-hanging the strewn clothing and packing them back into their casings. “Please begin setting up for the initiation practice shoot.”

“Right away, sir,” Qian says before turning on her heel and carting over to the rack of backdrop rolls. Zitao watches as she pulls a muted gray roll down, thunking heavily on the ground as she heaves out a tired breath, and Zitao wonders just how heavy the rolls could possibly be - aren’t they made of fabric?

Mr. Wu leaves his side to walk over to the photographer in confident strides, and Zitao awkwardly follows in his shadow, steps small. He watches as Qian unrolls the backdrop and unfolds a step stool to be able to hook the rings in the top of the backdrop to the hooks in the ceiling. In one swift yank, the backdrop unfurls messily along the floor and curtains elegantly in front of the lights. 

“Your first assignment is going to be what we call the Rain shoot,” Mr. Wu says beside him, and Zitao looks up in haste to find the president staring directly at him as he speaks. “It is a practice shoot for all new Marketing employees. It is to get you accustomed to being photographed professionally, as well as get you accustomed to learning how to pose properly under the guidance of your assigned coordinator.”

He glances back at the setup, all dull grey and lights slightly dimmed. Is it going to be sepia-toned, perhaps? Or maybe even black-and-white? 

However, inexperienced as he is with no previous knowledge of how to begin posing for professional photography, Zitao feels volatile that he will prove to be entirely untaught and hopeless. 

“It’s an easy shoot,” Qian tells him when she stops by, hands on her hips and a worn expression on her face. “Don’t worry, you’ll learn everything you need to know.” 

“Qian will prepare you for the shoot,” Mr. Wu continues to explain as he averts Zitao’s eye, looking over to the photographer as he adjusts his softboxes. “You will get used to how coordinators prepare their models and style them accordingly. As you grow accustomed to this routine, you can very well expect this sort of routine on a day-to-day basis.”

Zitao nods in understanding, soaking up each piece of information as though porous, before Qian asks, “Are you going to stay?”

The question takes the president by surprise, eyes clearing as his eyebrows furrow in momentary shock. “Stay?”

She nods eccentrically, “To watch the shoot.”

The man frowns, however, and his lips curl up as he says, “Of course not. I have important work to attend to.”

Oh. Zitao isn’t sure why he half-expected the president to stick around and nitpick him all the while. 

“You can handle her, Qian,” the president states, and Zitao blinks at the mention of himself. Then, with a shifty side-glance that impertinently meets Zitao’s eye, he finishes with, “Hopefully she won’t give you too much trouble.”

His lips part with a soft sound, expression faltering. What is that supposed to mean?

He doesn’t get time to ask questions before the president brushes past him with a cold glare in his eyes and malice in his breath, and Zitao shudders in the wake of it. Is this really how working for such a person is going to be? Zitao understands that well-mannered, polite employers are far and few between, but is it too much to ask for basic human respect? He is somebody with feelings, after all - does that not matter?

The touch of hands upon his shoulders